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The mage grimaces. “I don’t know if it’s possible for you to fold, Dawsyn Sabar. But if you are to have a chance, you will need to have control of yourself. Your thoughts. Do you understand?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

The mage backs away several paces, creating a sizeable distance between them. “Close your eyes,” she says.

Dawsyn laughs. “No.”

“Just do it, sweet. I promise I won’t steal your silly ax.”

Dawsyn narrows them instead, and finally closes them reluctantly. It is… uncomfortable to do so.

“Can you find the iskra? Do you feel where it lies?”

She feels it, lurking in its dark hideaway. “Yes.”

“Good. I want you to ignore it.”

“What?” Dawsyn blurts, her eyes opening. She was ready to lure it out, as she had been shown before.

“Just once in your life, Dawsyn, resist the urge to debate everything.”

Dawsyn almost grins. The mage sounds so very like her grandmother. She closes her eyes once more. She studiously ignores the oily glow of the iskra, sulking within.

“Do not call to the iskra. Look for something else instead. It is in the mind, not in the blood – a spark. It will feel warm and pleasant and light as air, right behind your eyes. Do you feel it?”

“No,” Dawsyn says, frowning.

Baltisse huffs. “Think of something nice, then.”

Dawsyn wants to roll her eyes. “Nice?”

“Stay focussed. Think of a time you were happy. Content.”

Quite a feat for one such as Dawsyn. There is only one time she can recall in recent years, and she is reticent to think of it at all. Her mind reaches back further for something else, anything else, but she knows that there is nothing more contenting that this: her head against Ryon’s bare chest, the rise and fall of his breath, the warmth of the fire. The quiet, the stillness, the restfulness of it. The feeling of… safety. She could try to match it with thoughts of her childhood, but nothing will feel as warm as this.

So, she draws the memory out. She views it as if she were hovering above, looking down at the two on the grimy cabin floor, their skin illuminated by the tongues of flame in the hearth. She watches as the man sleeps, his arm around her waist, his hand on her hip. She sees his face turned into her hair, as though it comforts him. She watches the woman inch her naked body closer and softly smile.

And even with her eyes closed, it’s as though a light makes the memory brighter. She feels that elusive spark Baltisse spoke of, one Dawsyn now attributes to the zeal of joy, the blissful jolt of rightness when all minute cosmic interferences align.

“I feel it,” she tells Baltisse.

“Good. Now offer it a place in your hands, and it will go there.”

“How–?”

“It won’t be forced, Dawsyn. You must simply lead it.”

There is no time to feel stupid or inept. She worries that if she loses that small speck of light in her mind, she won’t find it again. She opens her palms before her, she gives every inch of her focus to it and thinks, as she has before,Come.

Dawsyn feels it move instantly, as though it had waited. She feels her body leading that light down her neck, over her shoulder and along the length of her arm. She feels it settle in her palm.

“When you are ready,” the mage says quietly, closer than Dawsyn expected her to be. “Think,igniss.”

“Igniss?”

“Fire,” Baltisse answers.

With the light beneath the surface of Dawsyn’s hand, warm and welcoming, she thinksignissand waits.